


Imitation is the Highest Form of Flattery

by imitateslife



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Blink And You Miss It Slash, Could be expanded, Dialogue Heavy, Gen, M/M, One Shot, unlikely friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 14:26:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20472527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imitateslife/pseuds/imitateslife
Summary: When Gleb Vaganov catches a man mocking him after his speeches, he can't help but be fascinated. Call it vanity, call it curiosity, but he knows he needs to talk to Dmitry Sudayev one on one.





	Imitation is the Highest Form of Flattery

Commander Gleb Vaganov saw the man at nearly every speech. Whether it rained or snowed or, like today, the sun shone and a light breeze cooled the square, he was there. Gleb wouldn’t have noticed him much generally. Tall and lean, with brown hair and plain clothes, he shouldn’t have stood out in a crowd. However, Gleb noticed him first six months ago. After delivering a speech commending the people of Leningrad for their hard work, Gleb decided to wander the square, mingling with those he had just praised. After all, he was no better or worse than they – only a citizen with the honor of honoring them. 

Then Gleb saw him. 

The man surrounded himself with a crowd of people in similarly plain – perhaps even shabby – clothes. Gesticulating broadly, the man repeated lines from Gleb’s speech in a falsely booming voice and punctuating the best lines with sarcastic tones and eye-rolls.

Hot anger rose in Gleb’s stomach. He had spent two weeks on the speech, pacing in his apartment and then rushing for a notebook when the rare bit of inspiration struck. He spent hours rewriting between his patrols and practicing on his office mates and secretary until they could repeat what he said verbatim. And here was this stranger, mocking it. Gleb had taken a step forward. And then he saw the people who watched. Smiles stretched across even the most careworn face. Gleb met the stranger’s blue eyes. The stranger stopped mid-sentence, scattering the crowd before finishing his reinterpretation of the speech. After that day, he was in every crowd and he gathered his own audience. 

Gleb kept his distance. Vanity dictated he get angry. The government preferred that he shut such counterrevolutionary behavior down. But it made people_ laugh _ and Gleb knew that in lean times, laughter was a rare commodity. It didn’t put bread on the table or coal in the stove, but it made the lack of necessities a little more bearable. He remembered his own lean times – first extra lessons went away, then his mother’s gramophone, then jam. The Revolution was supposed to improve things, but after his father killed the Romanovs, then himself, Gleb’s mother got sick and pawned her wedding ring for medical care and it didn’t do anything _ anyways _ . The odd joke, strange happening, or story that brought _ laughter _ into his world seemed like the only thing right in the new Russia. And then, of course, things got better for Gleb. Quickly promoted, he was the youngest commander on the force. Some of his colleagues believed he would make Deputy Commissioner before thirty-five. Gleb was determined to do it before thirty. But life had not always been easy for him and he knew he had it better than most. Until every man and woman was as satisfied as Gleb – more! He dreamed that there was more happiness to come for all. – and their lives easy, how could he begrudge them a bit of laughter, even at his own expense? Today Gleb gave a speech commending the newly formed workers' unions and, as he’d come to do, he looked for the man. He gathered a crowd, larger than normal and motioned exaggeratedly, imitating Gleb’s voice as he sawed the air with his hand. The ridiculous, sharp motions punctuated each word. Still, they were deft, graceful hands, even in mockery. Mesmerized, Gleb watched. Gleb _ listened _ as the man echoed his speech verbatim. 

“—And it is with that spirit of determination and drive to excel that we will show the _ world _ what it means to be—” 

Gleb stepped forward. The man’s blue eyes widened. As the others scattered like mice in the presence of a mouser, the man reached for his rucksack and scanned for an escape route. 

“Done with your performance so early, comrade?” Gleb asked. “Pity. I was hoping for an encore.”

The man squared his shoulders. He stood an inch taller than Gleb, but his hungry frame, all lean muscle, could not compare to the broadness of Gleb’s shoulders and the strength and vitality he could thank the army for. This was a man who not only had known hunger under the czar’s regime, but who still scraped to get by. His keen eyes flicked over Gleb’s medals and met his eyes. 

“What do you want?” the man asked. 

“I have some questions for you.” Gleb held up his hands peacefully. “I’ve noticed you here at every one of my speeches.”

“Congratulations – I wasn’t hiding.”

“Day after day, you come to my speeches and after, you give one of your own – or, well, one of mine with your own spin. Why?”

“I thought they trained you not to take things personally in military school.”

“It’s not personal. Why do you mock the progress our country has made in the last ten years?” 

“Who says it’s progress?”

Gleb pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and took another step forward. 

“Why don’t you think we’ve made progress?” he asked, voice softer than before.

Scoffing, the man shrugged. 

“I starved under the old regime. Not much has changed.”

“Did you mock the czar when he made public appearances, too, or am I just special?”

The man took a step forward. Upon closer inspection, Gleb could see that his eyes weren’t just blue, but flecked with grays and greens, too filled with fire for their cool color. A small smirk tugged at the corner of the man’s mouth, as if he was trying to hide a smile. 

“So… what? You’re the czar now?”

Gleb tried not to flinch at the comparison. 

“Not at all. I’m just a man – just as he was. No better than anyone.” 

The smirk on the man’s lips faded away. His lips parted, as if he had a question – a dozen – but no words came out. Blinking, he shook his head. 

“Wow. You really believe all that nonsense about equality.”

“It’s not nonsense.” Gleb folded his arms. “It’s an ideal to strive for. You should try getting one ot two.”

“Ideals don’t feed people,” the man said. His voice splintered for the first time. “Ideals just get people killed.” 

Gleb blinked. 

“No one is going to kill you, comrade.” 

Gleb hadn’t even considered arresting the man. What had he seen? He was young – Gleb’s age, maybe younger. Gleb had witnessed the assassination of the imperial family, had known hunger and lack and loss, but still he believed in goodness and hope. He _ had _ to. How bleak would life be without it? The man sighed. His shoulders slumped, not defeated, but relaxed, as if he’d really thought Gleb would shoot him in the square for making others laugh? 

“It’s Dmitry,” he mumbled.

“No one is going to kill you, _ Dmitry, _” Gleb repeated. 

“Then why did you approach me, _ commander _?” Dmitry asked archly.

He folded his arms tightly over his chest, but didn’t lift his eyes from Gleb’s. Gleb sighed. 

“Please. It’s Gleb, since we’re on a first name basis,” he said. “I see you out here every day, mocking me.”

“Jeez, you really take it personal. It’s not like that, _ Gleb _. People don’t want politicians and speeches, they want to laugh at them.”

“I’m not a politician.” 

“Are you sure?”

Gleb chewed his tongue in thought. He was a soldier by training, a policeman by necessity and he made speeches to boost national morale. Maybe he was a politician.

“Besides,” Dmitry continued, “whatever you are, my speeches making fun of you do more to lift people’s spirits than you waxing poetic about the new order.” 

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you. I actually wanted to thank you.”

Dmitry arched a brow. He didn’t ask the question or say it but Gleb could hear it in his smooth, sarcastic tenor already: _ Yeah, right _. 

“You’re quite the satirist,” Gleb continued. “Do I really do that thing with my hands?”

He imitated Dmitry’s imitation. Dmitry squinted at him. 

“Well, I must if it makes people laugh. But I wanted to thank you for bringing humor to the people my words of encouragement don’t reach.”

“Just doing my patriotic duty.” Dmitry rolled his eyes and slung his rucksack over his shoulder. “Save your ‘thank you’. I’m not here to help you do your job, _ Gleb _.” 

“No, you fill a different niche and it’s very valuable, even if it comes at my expense. Sometimes laughter is the only thing we can offer out people and it’s important. Thank you, _ Dmitry _.”

Gleb turned to go. What more could he say to Dmitry, a stranger, who he had nothing in common with, except a love for their people? Surely, Dmitry had nothing more to say to him. And yet =

“Hey!” 

Gleb stopped and turned around. Dmitry’s arms hung loosely at his sides. A smile, bewildered, but real spread across Dmitry’s face. Gleb cocked his head.

“Looking forward to next week’s speech,” Dmitry said. “Do me a favor?”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t scare my audience away,” he said. His grin steadied, cocky and bright. “If you want a private performance, I’d have to charge you admission. You know, so it doesn’t look like you actually have anything in common with a street rat.” 

Gleb laughed. Then, narrowing his eyes, said, “That almost sounds like solicitation, Dmitry. I’d be careful with my words if I were you.”

“Solicitation?” Dmitry scoffed, stepping towards him. “Do you look for crimes everywhere you go?”

“It _ is _ my job.”

“Hmm. Is it? They have you making speeches an awful lot for a cop,”

Gleb laughed in spite of himself. Shrugging, he spread his hands out helplessly. 

“I’m just saying that the phrase “private performance” is….”

“Suggestive?”

“Dangerous.”

“Everything in Petersburg is dangerous.”

“Leningrad.”

“See? I can’t say anything right in this damn city,” Dmitry said. “Look, all I meant is that I’d do my bit for you and maybe you could help one more good and loyal Russian get a mouthful of bread.”

Gleb thought about the proposition. Could he offer money to see Dmitry mock him, even for a laugh? Shaking his head, Gleb answered wordlessly.

“You’re something else,” he said. “If it’s food you want, I’ll gladly cook for you.”

“You cook?” Disbelief crept into Dmitry’s voice. “Do you sew too?”

“The patriarchal notions of our fathers’ Russia are dying,” Gleb said. “I do what’s necessary to survive - cooking, sewing, all of it. I’m surprised you don’t relate. Surely you’ve had to do your fair share to get by, Maybe more.”

“Definitely more.”

“Tell you what: if you’re rally worried about starving, come by my flat, do your bit, and I’ll keep you fed.”

“I don’t trust Chekists and their promises”

“Don’t think of me as a Chekist. I’m just a man, offering a meal to another.”

“You must be one lonely SOB.”

“You could just say no like a normal person.”

“No,” Dmitry said. “It’s not a ‘no’. I’ll be there. Not exactly in a position to turn down a free meal.” 

“So, Thursday?”

Dmitry nodded before they parted ways. Gleb watched Dmitry disappear into the crowd and then walked towards the office, looking forward to Thursday already. 


End file.
